Dropped

At midnight before the next storm
I am blind, my hands frantic
against the walls
of alone again.
There is no language
for the color of this emptiness
that has dropped
from my hands
like the glass shattering
on the cold tile floor
of morning.

The sound of glass
cutting the flesh
of the night walker
is a gasp of disbelief.
I ask myself on the inhale
of this pain
how I could not have known
I would uproot my own betrayal
in the beauty of my spoiled garden.

And yet, another year has passed
just as the clouds will drift
over the green fields of spring.
The shiver of recognition
of all that precipitation gathering
in the corners of my eyes
and falling hopelessly onto
the stone cairns
I planted in hope
is a chill I can’t warm.

My journey is so long
and my burden of love is too great
to be abandoned and left
for the greed of the thieves
who will never pay what is owed
for my trouble.